


Penance

by qthelights



Category: Bon Jovi, Rock Music RPF
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Betrayal, Future Fic, Love, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Richie came back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penance

**Author's Note:**

> A little what if about when Richie comes back. (Which hopefully he does - how could they not remain friends given their history and the way they look at each other?). This was fun - my first 'band fic' of sorts! And here I thought it was a genre I'd never write...

"We've come a long way to get back here, Houston," Jon purrs into the microphone and the stadium erupts into cheering so loud Richie can feel the percussive blast hit the stage.

The crowd is a rowdy one, hyped up on one and a half hours of favourites and the knowledge that there's still another one and a half to go. It's hot; sweat is dripping down the back of Richie's neck in warm rivulets, soaking his shirt. His stretch leather jeans are molded to his legs in the humidity. It's gonna be hell to get them off later.

The heat isn't deterring the Texans though - as if it could. They swoon and catcall at the teasing lasciviousness of Jon's tone as he drapes himself over the mic.

"It took some of us a little longer than others," Jon continues, turning towards him and grinning, teeth so predatory Richie can feel the itch at his jugular.

It's the 25th show of the tour. So far, Jon has done this almost every night. It's probably the least Richie deserves. So he grins back, bows his head in subservience, then his whole body in half, his gaze becoming nothing but steel and frets. Sweat drips from his brow to the stage.

Like they do every time, the crowd erupts in an anarchy of screams. They love it, feed off it, feed it. They love the candor, having Richie back, having Jon 'tease' his absence. Having their brothers.

Jon waits for Richie to stand back up, his Fender Strat sliding up his thighs and the strap pulling taut across his back. Jon waits a moment more for the screams to die back to a slightly less harsh decibel level. The grin Jon is bestowing on him doesn't so much as flicker. The full force, white soldiers in a row, Jon Bon Jovi Special.

Richie swallows past the dry scratch of his throat, dips his head slightly and resists the urge to shuffle. It's heady, being the direct and only focus of a man who prides himself on focusing on ten things at once. Has been since they were eighteen and huddled in Jon's bedroom; the floor, mattress and bed littered with paper scribbles, as they hunched over beat up guitars. Even Jon's parents cooking dinner in the kitchen, his brothers running riot through the hall outside couldn't break the spell of Jon's manic grin when a line worked, a chord meshed or their voices merged in a way that made Richie's chest ache and Jon's eyes light up.

The difference is in intention, even if the effect is the same. Then was barely hidden wonder at what they could do together (and, Richie likes to think, a little wonder at him personally).

It's still heady, now, with twenty thousand fans devouring them; Tico keeping a steady holding beat behind them; Dave smiling awkwardly around a drawn out melody. Everyone down in the pit below keeping shit together.

Now, though, the gaze isn't one of wonder. It's Richie’s penance.

Now is Richie having to endure thinly veiled taunts and recrimination hidden in the steel blue of Jon's eyes. Now is tension and anger and betrayal, disguised as brotherly love. Now is an eternity of apology and chasing absolution.

He endures it. Did for the past 24 shows, has tonight, and will for the next 150 shows to come.

Because it's Jon. It's always Jon.

Richie has thirty years worth of knowledge of this man wrapped up in his head, his veins, his soul. They're as close as two people can get without being made from the same flesh. So he knows, even when he's on his knees on the plush carpet of Jon's suite, cold hotel door at his back. He _knows_. It isn't anger digging Jon's fingernails into Richie's scalp, pulling at his hair. It's fear. Fear that Richie will go away again, will next time not come back.

So Richie says his hail mary’s, takes his lashes and lets Jon mock him every night.

It's the least he can do.

It means nothing in the bigger scheme of things. Not when he can push Jon down into the soft as silk sheets of the night's hotel. Take him apart with the quickness of practiced guitar-playing fingers, pull the chorded moans and sharp intakes of breath from Jon the way no one else gets to.

Jon always says that taking care of his voice is a science, so he probably wouldn't think much of Richie's covert effort to help his vocal chords heal, but he does it anyway, sucking at Jon's adam's apple, laving his tongue up the salty pillar of his throat. Warming him from the outside in with lips and tongue and the hint of teeth.

Below him, Jon's heart beats in time with the thudding silence in Richie's ears, the absence of sound after nothing but deafening loudness. He's careful to keep his fingers away from the sensitive shells of Jon's ears, threading them into the damp hair behind instead.

Jon loves like he performs, with an intensity that belies the shit that came before the act began. His anger is absolved and forgotten, if only for the moments they find together. In between the sheets there’s no history, no politics, just their echo guiding hands to press tighter and tongues to delve deeper.

The before means nothing as Richie slides slick and sweat-covered into Jon. Jon who is so absolutely wrecked from three hours on stage that there's no fight left, pliant and malleable, allowing Richie to push up his knees, let his ankles rest against Richie's calves like sodden weights. The megalomaniacal control freak is gone, and back in Richie's arms is the naive eighteen year old full of wonder and trust, albeit a fucking exhausted one, giving up everything to him, despite the fear of being broken.

Richie won't break him though, not intentionally. He regrets that he caused pain, even when the situation wasn't about that, about Jon, or anything related to him. He left because he had to, but he always knew he was coming back, even if the words failed him in getting that point across. Without words, the thing that of all things, he and Jon always bent to their will, he was lost, and being lost, he simply left. Too scared to face the situation without armour and leaving someone else to deliver the news. An irony and the point, all rolled up into one.

It’s not that Jon’s unfeeling, it’s just that work comes first. Richie knew that the day he didn’t show up to it. Knew that instance in a way that forced him to the bathroom to vomit bile, that it was the one thing Jon would never forgive. Knew it was the price he would pay, and that it was one he would have to agree to. So he did. He made his peace then, and now he takes his punishment. Deals with the devil seldom work out happily.

He never wanted to hurt Jon. Never does. For the very reason that keeps Jon open and vulnerable when it's just the two of them in the dark. He belongs to Richie. And Richie belongs to Jon.

The fingers clutching at Richie's sides as Jon comes, so tired he can barely enjoy it, barely making a sound as come splatters half heartedly across his abs, confirm that. Jon’s eyes flicker closed, his sleep-draped gaze giving way to the moment. Richie follows him in this as he does in everything else. He makes it a point to.

They fall asleep, drying sweat and come, and fear.  Tangled and exhausted, and, for a moment, in denial of the day ahead. The walls and next night’s concert and the penance to be paid once more don’t intrude just yet. Melodies cool on their skin and Richie hums quiet riffs as Jon drifts into sleep.

It’s the least he can do.

He'd do a lot more.

 


End file.
